Only later, as they floated gently back, did he murmur in her ear: ‘May I … like yesterday?’
And so the days passed, each as dreamlike as the last. Sometimes they visited a church, or looked for a little-known picture that hung halfconcealed on the dark walls of some neglected Scuola, but mostly, unlike the tourists who never tired of sight-seeing, they remained in their gondola, floating down obscure canals and always, in the end, out on to the great expanse of the lagoon, lying there in each others arms in sweet exhaustion, fingers entwined while they were still in town, kissing with joy and abandon as soon as they were away from the shore. They always had the same gondolier. From his post behind their cabin, their faithful Riccardo plied his oar so slowly and silently that it seemed that the gondola was propelled by no human hand. Each day, they would go even further from the city, until it seemed that they were the only two people in the whole wide world and that they would float on for all eternity, surrounded only by the mother-of-pearl waters of the lagoon and the faint rainbow iridescence of the late afternoon sky. Time stood still and nothing was real except their love, only their love.
Never again had either of them made the slightest allusion to what they had so long discussed on their first day together. Both were aware, all too aware, of what the future might hold, but by tacit mutual understanding, they pushed aside such thoughts as if they never had been and never would be.
Adrienne passed her mornings on the Lido beach where the sun beat down ferociously, very different from the soft radiance of the afternoon light over the lagoon. She and her sisters used to swim for hours together as all of them had been strong swimmers since the days they had splashed about in the great lake at home and been taught to swim when still young children. They felt quite at home in the water and now, in Venice, they bathed separately, Adrienne consciously taking herself a little way off from her sisters for she had noticed that Judith’s face still hardened if she came near. It was quite enough to be with them at lunch or sit with them in the hotel lounge in the early afternoon when Mlle Morin went upstairs to take a nap. In the mornings she swam alone, energetically and with great long strokes and almost savage pleasure, just as she did when she walked, or skated or danced.
Often Adrienne swam a long way out to sea, where the waters were dark and deep and far bluer than closer inshore. When she returned after swimming far out she would often stop for a moment as soon as she arrived in shallow water where she could stand with the little waves just below her knees. Sometimes she would stand there for a long time, quite motionless, and then, the water running off the black swimsuit which clung wet and shining to the lines of her body, she was like some polished marble statue.
She stood there, oblivious of the many men who eyed her from the shore. She never even noticed their looks. For her only one man existed, and he would be waiting for her later in the gondola by the quay under the Ponte Canonica. So she would stand there just gazing out to sea, looking towards the far horizon, head held high, brows knitted as if she were thinking hard.
Where she stood, the waves flowed over her feet and legs and were yellowy-green in colour, for here it was shallow and the golden sand beneath could be seen through the translucent water. Only farther out, where the deep waters started, did the sea become dark and mysterious.
There were no ships to be seen except, very occasionally in the far distance, they could glimpse the sails of fishing boats going towards the shores of Istria where the catches were unusually rich for the Adriatic. One little boat was always there, riding at anchor. It was the boat of the life-guard placed there by the authorities to make sure no one swam out too far or got into difficulties out of reach of the shore. Outside the limits of where most people swam there were dangerous currents against which even the most experienced of swimmers were powerless. Once taken by one of these no one could get back without help. Adrienne often looked out towards that little boat, anchored there so far from the shore.
She seemed thoughtful, as if weighing up something in her mind …
Chapter Eleven
ON THE SECOND SATURDAY IN JULY, Riccardo Lobetti, the gondolier, who had hardly ever opened his mouth when he was with them as if he knew and understood that they wanted to be alone with their love, suddenly made them a proposition, volubly and excitedly crying: ‘Domani sera, la festa del Redentore. Unabellissima festa.Magnifica!Aaah … magnifica …’
The great feast of the Redeemer, the most famous of the Venetian Carnivals, was to take place the following evening. Riccardo wanted them to see it from his gondola.
‘Bisogna vederla! Bisogna vederla! Gran’ festa! — You must see it, it’s a great festival’ he said, waving his hands in the air to emphasize what an important occasion this was. They accepted at once.
About ten o’clock Riccardo arrived at the Palazzo Dandolo, where he picked up Adrienne and rowed her to the Piazzetta where Balint was waiting. Lobetti, who normally wore a grey linen garment, none too clean and much worn, was now clad in all his finery; a bright red silk shirt, white and yellow striped cotton trousers, and round his waist a magnificent broad green cummerbund with golden tassels. He was resplendent, and his gondola was the same. In the place of the canvas-covered cabin he had constructed a great sea-shell of basket-work covered all over with flowers, and flowers also decorated the length of the gunwales right up to the high curved prow from whose top hung a lighted oil-lamp.
‘Per la donna — for the lady!’ repeated Lobetti several times, bowing deeply when they congratulated him. They moved off slowly towards the Giudecca.
There were some lights visible in the distance, but the moment that they had rounded the point of the Dogana they were greeted by a marvellous and unexpected sight.
The great stretch of water, three hundred yards across, between the Zattere and the three islands of the Giudecca, was spanned by a temporary bridge festooned with electrical bulbs in the form of arches and pillars of fire. On one side the great Palladian church of the Redentore was a blaze of light and everywhere there were boats, thousands of them, covering the water as far as they could see. The state barges of the old patrician families had been brought out; every gondola in Venice seemed to be there and all were covered with flowers glowing in the light of baroque lanterns. Here also were the long barges normally used for transporting seaweed or wood or reeds across lagoons, the broad market boats that supplied the markets all through the week, little sandali and other rowing boats, all packed with people in festive clothes. Everyone mingled together, the richest beside the poorest, the lavish beside the meagre. One thing they had in common: all were decorated and everywhere people were laughing and happy. Some of the smaller craft, like Riccardo’s gondola, carried a bower of flowers, while the large barges had tables laid with food and drink and were peopled with handsome young men and pretty girls. The boys played guitars and mouth-organs and caressed the girls, who in their turn laughed and sang and giggled and kissed the boys and hid their faces in their brightly coloured shawls, those scialli which were an essential part of Venice’s traditional costume. Every boat was packed with as many people as could crowd aboard and everywhere was laughter and happiness.